Role Play
by chrissie0707
Summary: Missing Scene for 15X05 "Proverbs 17:3." Dean's gaze is locked on what remains of the most powerful weapon he's ever had in hand, and he can feel it, as the fight goes out of him, leaving more than just his legs numb.


_Author Note: Hey there, kids! Sorry I didn't get this missing scene up before Thursday's ep. It's just a little added h/c and mental anguish (oops) to the end of the ep. Enjoy!_

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**Role Play**

"Thank you, boys. See you soon."

Dean staggers as the demon disappears, finishing his interrupted stride on tingling legs. At his side, his brother stumbles forward a matching half-step with an offended 'oof.'

"Well," he says, gesturing half-heartedly toward the molten puddle on the pavement.

Sam's shoulders slump. "Yeah."

In that cabin, with his brother down and out, Dean hadn't been thinking much further ahead than _get the bitch away from Sammy. _The demon's mere presence had turned his stomach and made his skin crawl, reminding him of _I don't have to listen to puppy chow _and _sic im', boy_. With some warning – with _any _warning – they could have trapped Lilith properly, for longer than the sixty seconds Sam's devil's trap bullet had gotten them.

He'll never know whether he really made the choice to draw the demon away from Sam, or if it was just another example of brotherly sacrifice in Chuck's never-ending story. Another moment to be recalled after the reveal of the big twist ending.

_It always ends the same. One brother killing the other._

Lilith had the skinny on the inside track. She knew of Chuck's plan, and she could have been useful. Could still be, because he's out there, again. Chuck. _God._ He was supposed to be _gone_. Supposed to have blown this popsicle stand once and for all.

But luck has never been their kind of thing. And, really, isn't that the point here?

Dean's gaze is locked on what remains of the most powerful weapon he's ever had in hand, and he can _feel _it, as the fight goes out of him, leaving more than just his legs numb.

_On that basis alone, we should just pick a hemisphere. _

After the shine wore off and reality set in, Dean found himself hating everything about that gun. What he'd meant to do with it in that graveyard and what Sam _did _do with it, and the fact his brother took a chunk out of himself in the process. He _hated _that thing, but he still felt better with it at arm's reach in the glovebox, knowing Sam couldn't ever be able to sneak out of the bunker with the gun to pull the same kind of shit _he _did. They weren't supposed to ever need the goddamn thing again. It was a _last _last resort, more an insurance policy than a viable weapon. _That's _the reason it was here in the car instead of buried in a locked box in the bunker's archive room.

But, plot twist; turns out they do still need the damn thing. Or, they did. It was the only weapon that would give them a chance against Chuck. Without it…

"Just be glad she didn't do anything to the car."

His brother's voice draws his attention, but it takes a moment for Sam's words to register. "Why would you even say that?" Dean twists to glare at his brother, but the motion pulls the open gash across his ribs and wakes up the rest of the feeling in his body. He folds, brings his right hand up to the spot with a tight hum of pain. _Son of a – _

"Whoa, hey." Sam switches gears in a blink, expression drawn and serious as he shoves Dean straighter with a frantic sort of energy that means he hadn't been aware of more than the blood on his face. "Box of Band-aids, my ass," he mutters, tugging jacket and shirt out of the way to get a better look at the damage. "What did she do to you?"

"I'm fine," Dean says automatically. Then he drops his chin and sees for himself the smear of red across his palm, the muted stain on the front of his jacket. Adrenaline waning, the pain is settling all over his body now: twin stings of discomfort in his face, a third in his chest, a white-hot slash across his lower back. All topping off leftover aches and soreness from his earlier tussle with stunt wolf number one, not to mention the lingering fatigue of Lilith "putting him to sleep."

Sam ignores him, lips pursed as he drags up the hem of his t-shirt. Dean can't suppress a shiver as the chilly night air hits his exposed, bloody skin, and it does nothing to help his case.

"No, you're not," his brother says with a tired, resigned sigh. "You need stitches, man." When Dean doesn't make a move on his own, Sam grabs him by the sleeve and hauls him back toward the room he got after Ashley – Lilith – laid claim to theirs.

Dean complies with what he knows is uncharacteristic ease. Every time his right foot lands it jars the wound at his lower back, and he's gritting his teeth by the time they enter the room. Sam flips on every lamp, then suggests Dean take a seat with a not-so-subtle shove to the shoulder. He sinks to the edge of the mattress with a groan, presses the back of his right hand to his cheek and studies the blood left behind.

Sam roots through one of their bags and comes up with a handful of clean gauze for him to use instead. "Jacket and shirts off if you can."

Dean rolls his eyes. His brother hasn't been this handsy and overbearing since that gorgon nearly caved in his skull. Sam is obviously freaked over the God bomb-drop and is using this opportunity of Dean bleeding to cling tightly to whatever illusion of control he can.

He winces his way through shrugging out of his jacket and button-down, leaving faint streaks of transferred blood on the material. The t-shirt is sticking to his skin and seems like more work than it's worth, so Dean leaves it. The slashes to his chest and back feel deeper than those on his face, and now that he has nothing else to focus on, they hurt like hell. Every small movement aggravates torn skin and muscle, and his shirt is tacky with blood. For all her big, villainous talk, Lilith would have bored of him, or bled him out, long before a thousand cuts.

Sam wordlessly bails him out, clips the collar of the t-shirt with scissors from the kit and tears it down to the hem. All the good stuff is back in the bunker's infirmary, so he offers Dean his flask before returning his attention to the bag to gather the necessary supplies. With his back to Dean, he says, "it'd be nice to have an angel right about now."

There's an accusation buried in the bitterness and frustration of his brother's tone. Because Dean did that, of course. Forced their angel out the door without so much as a goodbye. Except he didn't; he just didn't stop Cas from leaving.

Mid-gulp of whiskey, Dean stiffens. "I'm fine."

Sam sighs again. "I don't mean for you." Even so, he hisses in sympathy as he guides Dean into a straighter sit and gets a closer look at the gash in his chest. "I mean for…"

"Yeah," Dean says, or at least thinks he does, before swallowing another mouthful from the flask, then finishing it off. It's probably better if they don't say much out loud right now. He knows what Sam means. He means for Chuck. For Lilith. For whoever – or _whatever _– the hell is next out of the hole from Hell. Because right now, it's just them. That's all they thought they wanted, but right now, it doesn't seem like nearly enough.

They have no plan, no weapon, and no allies. What the hell are they supposed to do against _God_ if it's just them_?_

Dean flinches when Sam presses an antiseptic-soaked towel to the gash, again when his brother mumbles an apology, and one more time when he nudges Dean's hand back to the task of mopping the blood from his face.

The dam's leaking from too many holes to plug at once.

It's quiet, a tangible sense of dread hanging over them like this room exists in a sort of limbo that will be shattered the moment they cross the threshold. Sam stitches him up without speaking, just releasing short, hitching inhalations each time he pulls the thread, like he knows he's hurting his brother.

Dean wishes it _did _hurt, but he lost feeling somewhere around the second stitch. He can't tell whether the numbness that's once more fallen over his body is in his head, or if he's lost more blood that he thought he did. Neither option is great, he knows.

"You're quiet," Sam notes, breaking the silence as he tapes down a clean bandage.

He clears his throat, fingers twitching in the cheap covers. "Sorry."

Sam shakes his head, telling him _don't be._ "It's just…"

It's just Dean's not supposed to be quiet while his brother patches him up. He's supposed to be making this as difficult for Sam as he possibly can. He's supposed to be quick with a joke, and quicker to fight. That's his _role. _But Dean's just not seeing the point in playing it anymore. How is he supposed to know if what he says next is really him, or just another line Chuck's written for him?

Sam cleans and bandages the cuts to Dean's face, then sits back, wiping blood from his hands. "She get you anywhere else?"

"No," Dean responds automatically. Because he can't remember, and he doesn't _care._ Because it doesn't matter.

Nothing does.

Sam huffs, but his face is white. Like he's thinking the same dark thoughts. He also knows Dean pretty damn well, well enough to know better than to take him at his word right now. So he turns his brother to the side, sucks in a harsh breath. "God."

Dean snorts humorlessly. "Yeah. God."

"Shut up." But there's no heat behind it. There's heat at Dean's back, though, when Sam finds and presses against that last demon-inflicted slice in his skin.

Dean feels every one of these stitches. His knuckles are white where his fingers are twisted in the blanket, and he nearly bites straight through his lip before his brother is finished.

Sam tapes down one more bandage, then pats Dean's leg and glances down at his watch. "It's pretty late. Or, early, I guess."

He can't tell if Sam is telling him or asking him, settles on a vague "mm hm" in response.

Another moment of heavy silence lingers between them before his brother asks, "you good to head back?"

Even that seems like a decision that requires more thought than Dean is currently feeling capable of. Assuming _any _decision he's ever made has truly been his. He lifts a noncommittal shoulder, starts looking around the room for a clean shirt.

"Dean?"

"What, Sam," he replies flatly, in the middle of summoning the energy needed to propel his body up from the bed.

"Let's head back. Okay?"

Like the problem is where they are. The problem has never been where they are, but who they are.

"Hey." Sam gingerly claps a hand to the side of Dean's neck, thumb resting just below his jawline. It's a move Dean recognizes, discretely checking his pulse, because he's freaking Sam right the hell out. "You with me?"

He blinks at his brother, nods. "Yeah." Sam drops his hand away and Dean shifts, eliciting a tug and muted ache beneath the gauze taped across his ribs, another at his back. He tries to keep the pain from his face but, God, Sam looks worried.

He's gotta stop thinking that. _God._

Sam smiles tightly, but it doesn't come close to reaching his eyes. He swallows. "We'll figure this out, man."

"Yeah," Dean says again, nodding numbly as he lifts a hand to pat the bandage.

That's his line, not Sam's. His role. He's just not sure he's going to be able to step up and play it this time.


End file.
